The Space Between Pages

[Vitruvius]

So I love horror and suspense. Lovecraft is my favorite author, and I mean classic Lovecraft, not when he died and all his friends expanded his stories and added their own spins on what he created. I'm usually good with action and crime stories, but a few years ago I wrote a horror story for a writing contest and I won so it kind of planted a seed of "maybe I'm good at this horror thing?" This isn't the story that won, but this is pretty much me reinventing that story since I've grown as an author. Unfortunately I'm pretty critical of myself and don't know if this story is something I should see through to the end. So knowing that at least Greg is a critical jerk, I figured I'd share my "prologue" with you guys and get some ground swell and see what you all think of it.

Dark and stormy. That's how all the horror stories start, right? His mind raced with every stereotype as the windshield wipers kept the snow at bay. Red eyes racing through the woods to his right. Fleeting shadows at every light post along the way. Voices in the winds that rocked the truck as he navigated the mountain roads. Every god damn one from when he was a kid up to last week when he checked out some new schlock horror about, surprise surprise, some ghost in the house all told from some dumb camcorder. Some times he felt the shit in his head was scarier than what they put in theaters these days.

Thing is, normally he liked being scared. For him it was better than any adrenaline junkie's idea of thrilling. Tonight, though? He wasn't having it. He felt tense. On edge. His gut was kicking and it wasn't because of the Big Gulp sized mug of coffee he'd been nursing all night. Focus was slipping, his eyes darting around nervously, catching a glimpse of something running across the road. Or was something climbing over the guard rails? Maybe something was flying with the fall of the snow? He couldn't get a bead on what was making him jerk and twitch, but it was out there. It was out there and it wasn't like any god damned movie he'd seen.

Normally his transport jobs are easy. Take some old shit from one museum to another, go this school, move things to this event. He'd seen it all. Vintage cars and bikes, old books no one's heard of, mummies, bones, weapons. Drugs on the rare side job. People a couple times. But he'd always kept his cool, didn't pay any attention to his cargo, just did the job and moved on to the next. The set up for this job hadn't even been strange; some school up in the Rockies acquired some book for their archeology department and needed it by the start of the week. The book itself wasn't scary, it had been in a wood case with a glass front. Just a thick leather book, no title on the cover, seemed like it was decent condition, too. All he knew was it was old, it was valuable and the college was interested in it for whatever reason. So why was he flipping his shit?

The answer hit him like a bird hitting a window. Instinct kicked in and he slammed the brakes with both feet. The road was so wet with slush that there wasn't even the squeal of tires, just the sickening rush of adrenaline that he loved so much, only instead of savoring his own fear second by second, he was watching as the road became the guard rail, the guard rail become the road and the road become the mountain side. Over and over again until there came the sudden curve that signaled the end of the ride. The moving truck hit the protective barrier, neither word upholding its definition as he went through it with the painful sound of metal slashing through metal. Now the blood spattered windshield showed a color tinted world spinning and tumbling, the driver getting thrown and thrashed and tossed as the vehicle rolled down the side of the mountain. His head was struggling to process everything, yet it took note of every sight, sound and smell, making the whole experience excruciatingly detailed and seem like it lasted a life time. Only seconds passed until the truck hit the pavement below with heart stopping force, the sound rising above the shrieking wind.

His blood pumped through every open wound in his broken body, his bones shifted in their new, exposed positions, his breathing slowed from the hemorrhages in his lungs, throat and brain. The last moments were agonizingly clear. And before everything dimmed to welcomed nothingness, the busted windshield allowed him to feel the chilling snow and wind one last time. Yet despite the weather, there in front of him stood a black bird. Then another joined it. And another. And more until the snow couldn't reach him anymore. All staring. Jerking their heads one way. Flitting to the side in sudden movements. Their eyes on him constantly. One hopped forward out of the storm and into the broken vehicle. The final image was a large bird thrusting its beak at him. He didn't even feel it take his eye.

In the mangled mess of the moving truck was a jumble of cargo. Strewn everywhere, items had been shattered, broken apart or crushed. Buried underneath the debris that had yet to be delivered was a wooden box. Inside that box was an oak case with a book. After hours of waiting, that book was freed. The dark creatures that had been instrumental in all this carnage picked through the litter until it found the book, all jumping around the broken box and picking at the cover with their beaks. Picking and plucking until they cooperated and pulled the ancient tome free and moved it away from the wreckage. Once it was removed from the truck, one by one the birds succumbed to the temperature. Snow would cover their bodies. Hardier animals would come to steal their bodies for meals. Yet nothing touched the book. It lay there melting snowflakes, making predators whimper and whine, smaller animals steering clear of it. It would wait, but wouldn't have to wait very long.

The storm passed by morning with a traveler finding the overturned truck. Police arrived later after getting several calls about the vehicle blocking the road. It wouldn't be until later that evening that the mess was cleared from the pass, allowing traffic to continue through the mountains. A missing persons report would be filed that night by police, though no one could have possibly survived an accident like that. But no body was found in, near or anywhere around the vehicle.

As for the book. It rested on the seat next to the driver who reported the crash. The sight of it had compelled him to retrieve the object. Without ever once opening the book or reading its title, he put it in his car, never having to explain it to the police as he gave his statement. As soon as he was free to go he continued his trip. Though instead of heading to Breckenridge for a weekend on the slopes, his plans changed to heading further up. He didn't know exactly where he was going, but he felt like the destination was clear in his head. After all, he was young, he'd use his imagination and make it a surprise journey. Change things up. You only live once, right?